


Uniquely Useful

by Artemis_Dreamer



Series: The Squishy Apocalypse [20]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Belly Rubs, Cybertron, Drabble, Fat Robots, Fluff, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Mild Angst, Not Canon Compliant, Physical Disability, Post-War, Retirement, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 05:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Dreamer/pseuds/Artemis_Dreamer
Summary: In short, Ratchet’s medical career was over. His function now consisted of sitting miserably on his aft in the habsuite that he shared with his conjunx, consuming copious amounts of sweet fuel while otherwise being completely useless.---In which the Autobots won, but Ratchet didn't. Or so he thinks.





	

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This is a work of fetish fiction, involving unhealthy eating, weight gain and implied belly stuffing.
> 
> Don't like, don't read.

Three stellar cycles ago, if anymech had bothered to ask Ratchet about his plans for the end of the Cybertronian civil war, the old medic’s answer would have been both straightforward and cynical. In his opinion, the war would never end. Even if by some miracle it actually did, Ratchet was of the opinion that there was no way in Pit that he’d still be online to see it.

If encouraged to move beyond such cynicism, the old medic's answer would simply have been that he intended to spend the rest of his function as a medic, be it in wartime or in peace.

Two stellar cycles and forty-nine decaorns ago, a miracle had occurred - the war had ended in an Autobot victory, and Cybertron had finally found peace. 

However, Ratchet was no longer a medic. He no longer had a purpose. And in his opinion, he may as well not have even been online.

Currently curled up beneath a soft mesh blanket on a decidedly oversized and careworn sofa, Ratchet petulantly stuffed another mint candy into his mouth. His brow ridges furrowed with displeasure as he took a moment to reflect on the injury that had ended his medical career.

He was an old mech. An old mech who had never bothered to undertake proper maintenance of his own frame, too busy maintaining the frames of others. Save, that is, for his servos. 

The sensitive and precise servos of a medic were by far their most valuable and versatile tool – without the full use of those servos, it would be nigh-impossible for a medic to perform the delicate repairs that characterized their ornly duties. 

Yes, Ratchet had maintained his servos with diligence and care - maintained them until the very orn that they had failed completely.

Perhaps it was Unicron's idea of a cosmic joke, or perhaps it was a punishment from Primus. Either way, the old medic's sensitive and precise servos were now barely functional, barely able to grasp small objects, to exert consistent pressure, or even to clench into fists. They trembled incessantly, and became unresponsive at frequent but seemingly random intervals.

To Ratchet, the solution had seemed simple enough. All that he needed was the opportunity to replace his servos with those of another medic – and there was certainly no shortage of offline Decepticons from whom to choose. Optimus Prime, however, had vehemently disagreed. In fact, the ensuing argument had quite nearly led to the termination of their sparkbond.

In short, Ratchet’s medical career was over. His function now consisted of sitting miserably on his aft in the habsuite that he shared with his conjunx, consuming copious amounts of sweet fuel while otherwise being completely useless. It frustrated him to no end, but he was unable to contribute in any meaningful way to the reconstruction of Cybertron.

Grumbling an irate curse, the medic stuffed three more mint candies into his mouth, chewing them with a completely unnecessary degree of force.

Optimus had made a valiant effort to pretend that his conjunx was still necessary and relevant, but it sure as Pit wasn’t working. Ratchet had no business being in a medbay, and as it turned out, he had no business being in politics, either. 

Optimus Prime led their world, but it was not Ratchet who fulfilled the role of Protector, standing loyally at his conjunx's side. No, the role of Protector had instead been bestowed upon Ultra Magnus. In order to prove that he was indeed a fair and just Prime, Optimus had chosen the most competent mech for the job, rather than falling back upon eons of tradition.

In short, Ratchet’s function now consisted of sitting on his aft and being completely useless, contributing nothing whatsoever to the reconstruction of Cybertron.

The old mech’s brooding was interrupted by the opening of the habsuite door - it seemed that Optimus had finally returned from yet another Primus-forsaken council meeting.

The Prime hurriedly crossed the room and deposited a small cardboard box on the footstool beside the sofa. Clearly rushed, he then bent to press a fleeting kiss to his seated conjunx’s cheekplate.

“I have missed you, old friend, but I am afraid I cannot stay for long.” His tone was rueful, almost apologetic. “There is another meeting I must attend.”

“You think I haven’t missed you?” Ratchet retorted, reaching from beneath the blanket to clasp the Prime’s servo with his own trembling digits.

The old medic’s scans indicated what he already knew. The Prime’s systems were badly stressed, his processor was in desperate need of recharge, and he was so overworked that it was a miracle he was still on his pedes. It should have been obvious to anymech with optics, but oftentimes it seemed that Ratchet was the only one who noticed - or perhaps the only one who cared.

With a sharp tug, the old mech pulled his exhausted conjunx down onto the sofa beside him. “Consider your meeting canceled. Medic’s orders.” His words were firm and insistent, and quite frankly, Optimus had no intention of arguing.

Ratchet maneuvered the blanket to cover both of their frames, taking advantage of the opportunity to press a kiss to his conjunx’s lipplates. An exvent of gratitude escaped the Prime’s vocalizer. It was an incredible relief to be off of his pedes for even a single klik, and knowing Ratchet, this enforced rest period would be far longer than a klik. Optimus doubted that he would be allowed to return to his busy schedule for several breems, if not for an entire cycle.

Forcing his servo to unclasp itself from his conjunx’s own, the medic tugged open the box that the Prime had brought him. It contained half a dozen delicious-looking eclairs - half a dozen round, golden pastries that had been utterly smothered with chocolate and stuffed to bursting with cream.

Taking one from the box, Ratchet held it gingerly between his unreliable digits, not wanting to either crush or drop such an irresistible little treat. Finally satisfied with his control, the medic bit eagerly into the first of the pastries. 

It tasted every bit as delicious as it looked. The pastry was moist, soft, and clearly very fresh. In fact, it was still warm from the oven. His sensornet was immediately flooded with the flavors of mild and savoury dough, of dark and bitter chocolate, and of the sweetest, richest cream imaginable.

“You brought me more fuel?” The medic arched an incredulous optic ridge, speaking to his conjunx through a mouthful of pastry. “If you keep this up, you’re going to make me fat.”

Optimus moved his servo beneath the blanket, stroking the curve of Ratchet’s chassis and pinching gently at the softness that he found there.

“I believe that I already have,” the Prime observed wryly.

The medic flinched away from his conjunx’s touch, grumbling a curse under his vent. His cheekplates heated with shame. He knew that he shouldn’t have been eating so much. He knew that he hadn't been doing his health any favors. And above all, he knew that fat mechs were viewed as nothing less than hideous.

He also knew that fuel was perhaps the only thing that still brought him happiness during the long and lonely daylight cycles for which Optimus was absent from their habsuite.

Worries, once held at bay by the force of sheer denial, began to creep back into his processor. Prime had sought any possible excuse to deny him the role of Protector. Would he soon be denied the role of conjunx as well?

Optimus could clearly sense the distress in the older mech’s field, and it troubled him greatly. 

When he spoke, his tone was one of gentle reassurance. “You misunderstand me,” the Prime clarified. “My words were spoken in jest. Every inch of your frame remains perfect - in fact, I find it even more perfect than before." 

Ratchet shuttered his optics with abject confusion. As far as he was concerned, his conjunx’s statement made no sense whatsoever. “Why the Pit would you like it?” The medic demanded.

It was the Prime’s turn to flush with embarrassment, ducking his helm like an ashamed sparkling. "Over the past stellar cycles, your frame has become a soft and comforting presence. When I hold you in my arms, I feel that I am finally at peace.” Optimus confessed.

The medic’s optics narrowed, his processor making the obvious connection. "If I find out you that did this to me on purpose -"

“No!” Optimus interjected hastily, interrupting the medic before his irate grumbling could escalate into a furious rant. “I swear to you, this was completely unintentional.” 

Clearly flustered, the Prime continued. “When you eat, you seem so content, so incredibly relaxed. I can't seem to resist the temptation to bring you as much fuel as possible. I love you, Ratchet, and I want nothing more than for you to be happy.”

"You say that, and then you go turning me into a strutless blob of fat," the older mech scoffed. Optimus visibly winced, prompting the medic to chuckle. "Relax, Orion. I'm not going to rip your helm off." This time.

Ratchet wrapped a thick arm strut around the Prime's chassis, pulling his conjunx more closely against his own frame. Exventing with contentment, Optimus gladly leaned into the comfortable softness of the medic's side, immediately reaching out to caress his conjunx's chassis. 

Ratchet's soft plating felt truly wonderful beneath his servos, warm and malleable, easily conforming to his touch. As his digits mapped the folds and rolls of that plump chassis, he realized that the medic was far larger than he'd remembered.

Rather than merely protruding into his lap, Ratchet's belly occupied it completely, obscuring thighs that were quite likely massive. Rather than taking up a bit of extra space, Ratchet quite nearly occupied half of the couch, his thickly padded hips and aft spreading generously over the cushions. Rather than a slight softness, there was now a generous layer of fat over Ratchet's chestplates and arm struts, particularly around his rounded shoulder joints.

Rather than being pleasantly plump, Ratchet was now enjoyably enormous.

The medic bit into his second eclair of the evening, traces of cream filling smearing across his cheekplate. Optimus immediately leant in closer, kissing away every last trace of it. The sensation of that plush cheek against his lipplates was pure bliss.

"I am glad that you are able to understand my desires." Optimus confessed at last, thoroughly relieved. "I feared that you would think me glitched."

"Who's to say you aren't?" Ratchet retorted, a humorous tone belying his harsh words. "I'm a medic, not a psychiatrist."

The older mech took another deliberately sloppy bite of pastry, more of that delicious cream filling smearing across his cheekplates. As he had anticipated, the Prime leant in yet again to kiss it away. A hum of pleasure escaped his vocalizer – dear Primus, he could get used to this.

Ratchet was no longer a medic, but he did indeed have a purpose. And in his opinion, he was lucky to be online. 

His purpose was to bring his Prime peace, to offer Optimus all of the love, warmth, and affection that he could possibly desire. His purpose was to repair and maintain his conjunx’s injured spark, just as he had once repaired and maintained the frames of so many injured mechs.

Yes, his function now consisted of sitting comfortably on his aft in the habsuite that he shared with his conjunx, his frame bulging with fat. Sitting comfortably on his aft, stuffing his faceplates with delicious fuel that would only serve to make him even fatter. Sitting comfortably on his aft, while the most powerful mech ever to function lavished attention on every inch of his frame.

His purpose was to bring his Prime peace, to offer Optimus all of the love, warmth, and affection that he could possibly desire.

Ratchet’s function now consisted of sitting on his aft – but he was far from miserable, and even farther from useless.

**Author's Note:**

> For the anonymous Batformers, who requested some post-war Ratchet/Optimus. I hope that you like it!
> 
> I apologize to my regular readers, but health circumstances have made it necessary for me to take a short hiatus from writing - I will be unable to write or to post new works for the next few weeks. I will complete all outstanding requests (Ultra Magnus, Starscream/Predaking, and Kup/Ratchet Pt 2) once I have properly recovered. 
> 
> I sincerely appreciate your patience - it's not my intention to let you down.
> 
> Any and all feedback is much appreciated!


End file.
